The Desert King's Secret Heir

Of course he didn’t. This man was tougher, far more daunting than Shakil. She’d bet he didn’t do easy, charming smiles. Instead he wore royal authority like a cloak.

Yet she could almost hear herself asking, Excuse me, Your Highness, would you mind undoing that exquisitely tailored suit and tie so I can check if you have a scar from a riding accident?

‘Arden, are you okay?’ Hamid’s voice was concerned, his hand warm as it closed over hers.

His touch jerked her back to reality. She slipped her hand from his arm and locked her wobbly knees.

Tonight had revealed, to her astonishment, that Hamid now thought of himself as more than a friend. She couldn’t let him labour under that illusion, no matter how grateful she was to him.

‘I’m...’ She cleared her throat, hesitating. What could she say? I’m reeling with shock? ‘I’ll be all right.’

Yet her gaze clung to that of the man towering before her as if he was some sort of miracle.

It was that realisation that snapped her back to reality. He wasn’t Shakil. If he had been Shakil, he’d be no miracle, just another of life’s tough lessons. A man who’d used her and tossed her aside.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.’ Her voice sounded wispy but she persevered. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay in London.’

Belatedly she wondered if she was supposed to curtsey. Had she offended him? His flesh looked drawn too tight and she glimpsed the rigid line of a tendon standing proud in his neck. He looked ready for battle, not a society meet and greet.

For long seconds silence stretched, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge her. She felt her eyebrows pucker into a frown. Beside her Hamid’s head swung sharply towards the Sheikh.

‘Welcome to my embassy, Ms...’

That voice. He had the same voice.

‘Wills, Arden Wills.’ Hamid spoke since Arden’s voice had disappeared, sucked away by the tidal wave of horror that seized her lungs and stopped her breath.

‘Ms Wills.’ The Sheikh paused and she glimpsed what almost looked like confusion in those dark eyes, as if he wasn’t used to pronouncing such a commonplace name.

But Arden was too busy grappling with her own response to Hamid’s cousin. He looked and sounded exactly like Shakil. Or as Shakil would if he’d sloughed off his laid-back, live-for-the-moment attitude and aged a few years.

This man had a thinner face, which accentuated his superb bone structure. And his expression was grim, far harder than anything Shakil had ever worn. Shakil had been a lover not a fighter and this man looked, despite his western tailoring, as if he’d be at home on a warhorse, a scimitar in his hand as he galloped into battle.

Arden shivered, clammy palms skimmed her bare arms as she tried to ease the tension drawing gooseflesh there.

He said something. She saw his lips move, but there was a weird echoing in her head and she couldn’t make out his words.

She blinked, swaying forwards, stumbling and steadying herself, drawn unwillingly by his dark velvet gaze.

Hamid pulled her against his side. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted you come tonight. Your condition is too delicate.’

Arden stiffened in his hold, dimly noting the Sheikh’s sharply indrawn breath. Hamid was a dear friend but he had no right to feel proprietorial. Besides, it was a long time since she’d craved any man’s touch.

‘I’m perfectly healthy,’ she murmured, trying to inject power into the words. The flu had knocked her but she was almost back to normal. Yet her recent illness provided a perfect explanation for her woozy head and unsteady legs.

She moved a half step away so he had to drop his arm. Gathering the shreds of her composure, she met the Sheikh’s midnight eyes again, instinctively fighting the awareness thundering through her, and the crazy idea she knew him. That wasn’t possible. Shakil had been a student, not a sheikh.

‘Thank you for the welcome, Your Highness. It’s a beautiful party.’ Yet she’d never wanted to leave anywhere with such urgency.

It felt as if he delved right into her thoughts with that unblinking regard. It took all her control not to shift under his scrutiny.

‘Are you sure you’re well, Ms Wills? You look unsteady on your feet.’

Her smile grew strained and she felt the tug of it as her face stiffened.

‘Thank you for your concern. It’s only tiredness after a long week.’ Heat flushed her cheeks at the realisation she’d actually come close to collapsing for the first time in her life. ‘I’m very sorry but I think it best if I leave. No, really, Hamid, I’m okay by myself.’

But Hamid would have none of that. Nothing would satisfy him but to see her home.

‘Idris doesn’t mind, do you, Cousin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but went on. ‘I’ll at least see you back to the house then return.’

From the corner of her vision Arden registered the sharp lift of the Sheikh’s eyebrows, but she had more to worry about than whether she offended by leaving his party early.

Like how she could kindly but effectively stave off Hamid’s sudden romantic interest without straining their friendship.

Like how Sheikh Idris could be so uncannily like the man who’d torn her world apart.

And, most important of all, why it was that even after four years she felt sick with longing for the man who’d all but destroyed her.

* * *

A night without sleep did nothing for Arden’s equilibrium. The fact it was Sunday, the one day of the week she could sleep in instead of heading in to work at the florist’s shop, should have been a welcome pleasure. Instead she longed for the organised chaos of her workday race to get out the door.

Anything to distract from the worries that had descended last night. And worse, the memories, the longings that had haunted each sleepless hour.

Life had taught her the dangers of sexual desire, and worse, of falling in love. Of believing she was special to someone.

For four years she’d known she’d been a naïve fool. Brutal reality had proven it. Yet that hadn’t stopped the restlessness, the yearning that slammed into her like a runaway truck the moment she’d looked up into the eyes of Sheikh Idris of Zahrat.

Even now, in the thin light of morning, part of her was convinced he was Shakil. A Shakil who’d perhaps suffered a head injury and forgotten her, like a hero in an old movie with convenient amnesia. A Shakil who’d spent years searching desperately for her, ignoring all other women in his quest to find her.

Sure. And her fairy godmother was due any minute, complete with magic wand and a pumpkin carriage.

Shakil could have found her if he’d wanted. She hadn’t lied about her identity.

He’d taken pleasure in seducing a gullible young Englishwoman, starry-eyed and innocent, on her first overseas vacation.

Arden shivered and hunched her shoulders, rubbing her hands up her arms.

She was not giving in to fantasy. She’d done with that years ago. As for the Sheikh looking like Shakil—it was wishful thinking. Wasn’t it Hamid’s almost familiar looks that had drawn her to him that day at the British Museum? That and his kind smile and the earnest, self-effacing way he spoke to her about the elaborately beautiful perfume bottles and jewellery at the special exhibition of Zahrati antiquities.

He’d reminded her of Shakil. A quieter, more reserved Shakil. So was it any wonder his cousin the Sheikh had a similar effect? Maybe crisp dark hair, chiselled features and broad shoulders were common traits among the men of their country.

Right now she’d had enough of Zahrati men to last a lifetime. Even Hamid, who’d suddenly turned from friend and landlord to would-be boyfriend. When had that happened? How had she not seen it coming?

Setting her jaw, Arden grabbed an old pullover and shrugged it on, then cautiously opened the cleaning cupboard, careful not to make too much noise. At least, as the only one awake, she had time to ponder what to do about Hamid and his sudden possessiveness.

Grabbing a cloth and the brass polish, she unlatched the front door and stepped outside, pulling it to behind her. She always thought better when she worked. Rubbing the brass door knocker and letter box would be a start.